That summer day, the Gingerbread Man came home with a bag full of goldfish.
"For the pond," he said. Calling this water hole a pond is a bit generous. But there it is, surrounded by moss and ferns and springs, and you love it.
That summer you volunteered to take the compost out to the compost pile, just so you could head to the pond afterward. There was something magical about the sleek, orange bodies sliding in and out among the water plants, and the single frog who kept them company, hiding under fronds of ferns. You would hear the plop as he leaped into the water if you came too close.
By summer's end, only one fish remained. The others were surely victim to fisher cats or raccoons, or maybe even a fox. You named the sole fish Angst, and made a home for him in a goldfish bowl. His fishy antics kept you company all winter. You sat in the armchair on one side of the television, and he swished around in his bowl on the other side. Though you couldn't see him, you could hear little blips and flips, but each time you stood up to see what he was doing, he innocently swam in circles.
Must be the tides, you thought.
Made you look, he thought.
When spring rolled around again, you put Angst back in the spring-fed pond, where he was joined by a new crew, among them Goldeen, Blackie, and Cardinal. Once again, you made trips to the pond, to sit on the rock under the oak tree, and breath in the green-ness of the place, watching for flashes of gold and orange in the water.
Time passed, the days grew shorter, and a chill settled over your neck of the woods. It was time to bring the fish in. Four hardy souls still swam in the wild waters. Your small fishbowl that housed Angst suddenly seems not only small, but cruel. The fish never made it inside that winter.
Come spring, you saw no happy flash of orange in the still waters, no sign of life at all. Had it been too cold? Did the fisher cats get them? The raccoons? You felt bad. Life is life, regardless of whether it is obtained by a 29-cent purchase at Wal-Mart or not. Visiting them had made you happy, on those days when you needed some sign of life other than the ten-and-under boy variety.
You did not buy any more fish, for your summer would be spent far, far away, and there would be no one to feed them, no one to seek out their magic. The pond remained empty that summer, but for the frogs.
Winter came yet again, and the fishbowl gathered dust and cobwebs on a shelf in the garage. Two floors above the fishbowl lay a sick gingerbread boy, a cranky gingerbread boy. Nearby was a mom, frustrated and housebound. At the end of that very long day spent inside, that mom longed for fresh air sucked into her dry lungs. She longed to stand under the comforting trees, and be a small thing, a part of the forest and the earth and the water.
That is you.
You grab a flashlight and follow the Gingerbread Man out to the compost pile.
"You mind if I go to the pond?" you ask.
He follows you as you crunch through the gritty snow. You don't need the flashlight, because the moon is full and bright, casting shadows on the blue snow. You pass by the rope swing, then go down the path veering to the right at the fork. There, two steps away, is the pond. Its surface is still and solemn, and you feel the frustration draining out of you, seeping out through your feet into the frozen ground. You feel calm just being here.
On a whim, you turn on the flashlight and aim it toward the middle of the pond.
You blink.
There, in the middle of the pond, is a goldfish, fins flickering.
He turns and dives back into his Atlantis.
You decide to name him Lazarus.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Friday, February 3, 2012
Perfect Days
The groundhog brings you surprise tickets to see an open rehearsal of the Boston Symphony. The Gingerbread Man takes the day off, and the two of you drive into Boston. After a mad dash to Symphony Hall, you sit in the midst of its splendor, amazed at the sound that comes from the stage. Amazed that a conductor can distinguish among so many threads of sound. Amazed that a composer could hear these things in his mind, then write it all down in a code that you can't even begin to understand--writing it down before it flits off and away.
The sound is so full and so rich, it is nearly tangible, as if you could slice it like cheesecake and ingest it. You watch the conductor, his movements, the response of the musicians. You look up at the windows, the statues in alcoves, the lighting, the seats--all while the music lifts you and carries you around. The musicians pause several times, as the conductor takes them through a few measures, over and over again, until they're perfect.
The music stops, and the house lights go up. It's intermission, but you have to leave. There's only time for lunch, then the drive back before the school bus arrives. So you and the Gingerbread Man enter an Ethiopian cafe, and order peanut tea. When it comes, it's scalding and it burns your tongue, but it is sweet and creamy and perfect. It's the sound of the symphony made hot, frothy, and drinkable. When your food arrives, you remember that Ethiopian food is eaten with fingers. So you dig in to red lentils, yellow split peas, and spinach and potatoes with the pancake-like bread, licking the sauce off your fingers.
Feeling full and happy, you walk back to the parking garage, reveling at being in a city again, reveling in the shapes of the buildings, the pattern of the cobblestones, the lines of planted trees. And the drive back gives you more time with the Gingerbread Man. Bliss.
When the gingerbread boys come home, they are at peace. You direct them in homework, dishes, piano, and you don't even have to make supper, because you made two pots of soup the day before, and there is plenty left over.
The sound is so full and so rich, it is nearly tangible, as if you could slice it like cheesecake and ingest it. You watch the conductor, his movements, the response of the musicians. You look up at the windows, the statues in alcoves, the lighting, the seats--all while the music lifts you and carries you around. The musicians pause several times, as the conductor takes them through a few measures, over and over again, until they're perfect.
The music stops, and the house lights go up. It's intermission, but you have to leave. There's only time for lunch, then the drive back before the school bus arrives. So you and the Gingerbread Man enter an Ethiopian cafe, and order peanut tea. When it comes, it's scalding and it burns your tongue, but it is sweet and creamy and perfect. It's the sound of the symphony made hot, frothy, and drinkable. When your food arrives, you remember that Ethiopian food is eaten with fingers. So you dig in to red lentils, yellow split peas, and spinach and potatoes with the pancake-like bread, licking the sauce off your fingers.
Feeling full and happy, you walk back to the parking garage, reveling at being in a city again, reveling in the shapes of the buildings, the pattern of the cobblestones, the lines of planted trees. And the drive back gives you more time with the Gingerbread Man. Bliss.
When the gingerbread boys come home, they are at peace. You direct them in homework, dishes, piano, and you don't even have to make supper, because you made two pots of soup the day before, and there is plenty left over.
At the end of the day, you stand by the bathroom sink, contemplating what a perfect day it's been. Perfect concert. Perfect lunch. Perfect drive. Perfect afternoon. Perfect evening.
It gives you pause.
In each day is some good and some bad. It's the natural balance of things. You believe this, fully. When you have a really bad day, this philosophy helps you to seek out the good in the day. You always find some.
A tiny space opens up in your mind, a small niggle. Where was the bad in this day? Not like you want to be pessimistic and seek out misfortune, but there was none. You want to simply be grateful for a happy day, but some part of you wonders when the bad will come. When will the axe fall?
Even as you think this, the gingerbread boy wakes up with a migraine. You sit up with him, rubbing his head for an hour and a half. You wish he didn't have this pain. You wish you could take it away. But you know that into each life comes some good and some bad. Into each day comes some good and some bad. This is his challenge for now. There will be other things in his life that will compensate for it. By 1:30, he's asleep again, and your perfect day is over.
Monday, December 12, 2011
No Room
She pulls down the box of books. She knows they have to go; there's simply too much stuff in the gingerbread house. But these books? These were the books she read over and over to her little gingerbread babies. Sitting in the rocking chair that had been her mother's, she held first one boy on her lap, then another, reading these books day after day, smelling their baby smell, reveling in their baby kisses, with their plump bottoms resting on her legs, their anxious hands grasping the thick pages.
The sweetness of the memories makes her ache. This was the book she read when they first woke up: "Hey little guys! Open your eyes! What do you say? It's a brand new day!" (Sandra Boynton) There was SQUIRREL IS HUNGRY, where she tickled tummies after reading, "Squirrel can put it in his tummy. Yum! Yum!" There were the board books that had creased corners, where the first gingerbread boy used to flick the heavy cardboard with his thumb until they bent. And then there was GOODNIGHT, MOON, always a favorite with the kittens and their mittens and that little lit-up dollhouse. It was a gift from her neighbor across the street, a librarian and a kindred spirit.
She feels as if she's packing up her boys' infancy and shipping them off somewhere else. Babies in a box, sent media mail. The smell of their graham-cracker dusted hands, their round bellies, and their chubby cheeks, off they go, wrapped in plastic, and taped securely shut.
She sighs, knowing she's being ridiculous. They're only books.
And they have to go, so she packs them up, sending them off to new owners, to new little hands who will learn to love their rhythms and their rhymes while sitting on a warm lap, rocking in a chair.
The sweetness of the memories makes her ache. This was the book she read when they first woke up: "Hey little guys! Open your eyes! What do you say? It's a brand new day!" (Sandra Boynton) There was SQUIRREL IS HUNGRY, where she tickled tummies after reading, "Squirrel can put it in his tummy. Yum! Yum!" There were the board books that had creased corners, where the first gingerbread boy used to flick the heavy cardboard with his thumb until they bent. And then there was GOODNIGHT, MOON, always a favorite with the kittens and their mittens and that little lit-up dollhouse. It was a gift from her neighbor across the street, a librarian and a kindred spirit.
She feels as if she's packing up her boys' infancy and shipping them off somewhere else. Babies in a box, sent media mail. The smell of their graham-cracker dusted hands, their round bellies, and their chubby cheeks, off they go, wrapped in plastic, and taped securely shut.
She sighs, knowing she's being ridiculous. They're only books.
And they have to go, so she packs them up, sending them off to new owners, to new little hands who will learn to love their rhythms and their rhymes while sitting on a warm lap, rocking in a chair.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
The Crystal Ball
When she started out, she could see into the future. It always involved breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It involved new school clothes, a Halloween costume, a birthday cake, a Christmas tree, lots of snow, those conversation hearts in February, an Easter basket, then a long summer vacation. The future meant a grade change: first grade to second grade, second to third, third to fourth. It always involved a new teacher, new things to learn, a new classroom.
When she went to high school, things began to get a little murky. There was still breakfast, lunch, and dinner. There were still new school clothes--in fact, there were more school clothes, which was ironic considering she wore a school uniform. There was still a birthday cake, and a Christmas tree, and lots of snow. There was still an Easter basket and a long summer vacation, but the future somehow seemed closer. She could see college looming ahead, but finances made her options somewhat limited. So did her mother. And majors? Sigh. She didn't know what she wanted to do with her life.
When she went to college, the future was still something far away, but every day, it was getting closer. She knew it would include a graduation, a marriage, and some children (the number of which was TBD). Someday she'd turn 30, then 40, then 50.
Now that college was over (once, twice, and thrice), and she's been married nearly seventeen years, and her family of gingerbread boys is complete, the future seems like a great expanse, and she can see no farther than the end of her fingertips.
But it doesn't seem to matter. She'll take each day as it comes, good or bad.
When she went to high school, things began to get a little murky. There was still breakfast, lunch, and dinner. There were still new school clothes--in fact, there were more school clothes, which was ironic considering she wore a school uniform. There was still a birthday cake, and a Christmas tree, and lots of snow. There was still an Easter basket and a long summer vacation, but the future somehow seemed closer. She could see college looming ahead, but finances made her options somewhat limited. So did her mother. And majors? Sigh. She didn't know what she wanted to do with her life.
When she went to college, the future was still something far away, but every day, it was getting closer. She knew it would include a graduation, a marriage, and some children (the number of which was TBD). Someday she'd turn 30, then 40, then 50.
Now that college was over (once, twice, and thrice), and she's been married nearly seventeen years, and her family of gingerbread boys is complete, the future seems like a great expanse, and she can see no farther than the end of her fingertips.
But it doesn't seem to matter. She'll take each day as it comes, good or bad.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
A Seat at the Table
In a different year, at a different table, she sat with different people. The turkey was the same, the mashed potatoes and gravy, the stuffing, the cranberry sauce--all seemingly the same, but they were made by different hands, poured into different gravy boats, mashed by different arms, seasoned by a different palate.
Though she cares for the people she sits with now, it's not the same. Different stories are told, different games are played, different rolls are forgotten in a different oven. Different voices speak in different accents, and different feet walk from kitchen to dining room.
She misses the old voices, the familiar table, the cut-glass bowl of cranberry sauce. She misses the chocolate pie, the whipped cream, the relish tray with black olives.
She misses her place in the past, her role in the family, her seat at the table.
Though she cares for the people she sits with now, it's not the same. Different stories are told, different games are played, different rolls are forgotten in a different oven. Different voices speak in different accents, and different feet walk from kitchen to dining room.
She misses the old voices, the familiar table, the cut-glass bowl of cranberry sauce. She misses the chocolate pie, the whipped cream, the relish tray with black olives.
She misses her place in the past, her role in the family, her seat at the table.
Monday, November 21, 2011
The Regulars
She sits at a table in the diner. The gingerbread boys across from her, the gingerbread man next to her. She orders tomato soup, a bowl of it, and in a rare extravagance, sweet potato fries. That counts as a vegetable, doesn't it?
The eldest gingerbread boy orders two children's meals. He's at the age when he can neither decide upon one meal, nor be satisfied by it. So two it is: hamburger and fries, macaroni and cheese and apple sauce. The younger gingerbread boy orders macaroni and cheese and chicken noodle soup. The gingerbread man orders something involving spice and chicken.
They sit, coloring their place mats, while listening to the banter around them. When their food comes, they eat, marveling over hollow legs and growing bellies, and talking about the wonders they've seen on their trip so far.
The tomato soup is perfect, and is just the thing for this windy New England trip. When she is almost finished, she hears a "Psst." She turns her head, wondering who could be "psst"-ing in a diner. There's a man standing at the entry to her right. Maybe she didn't hear it. No. Ridiculous.
"Psst."
Her ears did not fail her.
"Psssst." A little louder this time.
There must have been some secret signal, because the waitress comes over to her gingerbread clan. "Would you mind moving your coats?" The gingerbread man jumps up, grabs their coats they had slung over a stool at the counter on her left, and puts them in the empty booth on the other side.
The man sits down on the vacated stool.
"Hey, Jerry. How are you tonight?" The waitress asks.
Ah, a regular, she thinks. And they are outsiders, visitors to this coastal city. Tourists, even.
"Fine. You got any tomato soup?"
Good choice, she thinks.
"I'll go check."
The waitress disappears, then comes back with a sad shake. "All out. Just finished it. But we have Tomato Florentine."
She sinks a little in her seat, the evidence set before her: the remains of the last bowl of tomato soup. Not only is she a tourist, she's a tomato-soup stealer, too.
"Nah. I'll have chicken salad on white bread, and make sure he spreads it, not scoops it."
"You want chips with that?"
"Sure, sure."
She rumples up her napkin and sets it by the side of her bowl, carefully sculpting it to hide the evidence. She's not sorry she had the soup. It was good. But she wishes there were more.
The eldest gingerbread boy orders two children's meals. He's at the age when he can neither decide upon one meal, nor be satisfied by it. So two it is: hamburger and fries, macaroni and cheese and apple sauce. The younger gingerbread boy orders macaroni and cheese and chicken noodle soup. The gingerbread man orders something involving spice and chicken.
They sit, coloring their place mats, while listening to the banter around them. When their food comes, they eat, marveling over hollow legs and growing bellies, and talking about the wonders they've seen on their trip so far.
The tomato soup is perfect, and is just the thing for this windy New England trip. When she is almost finished, she hears a "Psst." She turns her head, wondering who could be "psst"-ing in a diner. There's a man standing at the entry to her right. Maybe she didn't hear it. No. Ridiculous.
"Psst."
Her ears did not fail her.
"Psssst." A little louder this time.
There must have been some secret signal, because the waitress comes over to her gingerbread clan. "Would you mind moving your coats?" The gingerbread man jumps up, grabs their coats they had slung over a stool at the counter on her left, and puts them in the empty booth on the other side.
The man sits down on the vacated stool.
"Hey, Jerry. How are you tonight?" The waitress asks.
Ah, a regular, she thinks. And they are outsiders, visitors to this coastal city. Tourists, even.
"Fine. You got any tomato soup?"
Good choice, she thinks.
"I'll go check."
The waitress disappears, then comes back with a sad shake. "All out. Just finished it. But we have Tomato Florentine."
She sinks a little in her seat, the evidence set before her: the remains of the last bowl of tomato soup. Not only is she a tourist, she's a tomato-soup stealer, too.
"Nah. I'll have chicken salad on white bread, and make sure he spreads it, not scoops it."
"You want chips with that?"
"Sure, sure."
She rumples up her napkin and sets it by the side of her bowl, carefully sculpting it to hide the evidence. She's not sorry she had the soup. It was good. But she wishes there were more.
Monday, October 24, 2011
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